


Do Something

by trash4ficsaboutlurv



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), SamSteve Gift Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-15 21:12:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9257420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash4ficsaboutlurv/pseuds/trash4ficsaboutlurv
Summary: After the events of CACW, Sam and Steve are in hiding in Costa Rica and they're both a bit irritated with their situation and have very different ideas about how to cope.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is for [Naomi](http://naomilasenby.tumblr.com) who wanted mutual recovery, kissing in the rain, fluff and more. Hope you like.

**_A Fucking Disaster_ **

Steve stood with the sun at his back and its light bathed him in shades of bronze, gold, and champagne. The fluffy white towel slung low on his hips fell in graceful, draping arches, as though Michelangelo himself had arranged the pleats just so and droplets of water clung to the fine hairs on his arms and happy trail. Sam watched Steve sleepily, noting rather dispassionately that Steve was as beautiful as ever, despite what they'd been through, what they were still going through.

Sam wondered if the super serum kept the dark circles and gaunt cheeks that came from too little sleep and food away from Steve. Sam had done a pretty spectacular job of avoiding the mirror when he went to shower or use the bathroom the last couple days, but he could guess he was sporting a less than stellar look. Bloodshot eyes, scruffy beard, the hollows of his face too severe. But not Steve. Steve looked like a photoshoot for expensive cologne.

And Sam wasn't so far gone in his own emotional quagmire to overlook that when he was up at night pretending to be asleep, so was Steve. On top of that, neither of them had gone grocery shopping since they tucked themselves away in this little hidey-hole in Tamarindo, Costa Rica, and they were going to have to start popping multivitamins soon. Sam had been surviving on cold tortillas and instant coffee, too sad and tired and distracted to prepare anything with more than one-step instructions. Senora Valverde who owned this little villa inn -- a middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper curls pinned up in a chignon that reminded Sam so much of his mother's church hair that it made his heart sore -- left a basket of fruit outside their door the first day they arrived. The fruit had diminished slowly, so Sam had to assume Steve was getting his sustenance there. Sam suspected he'd die of rickets and scurvy before Steve toppled over from iron and protein deficiencies from his own piss-poor diet.

Steve noticed Sam watching him and smiled. "It's a beautiful view out there this morning."

Sam yawned. Usually, this was the part where he lobbed something easy back at Steve. _It's a beautiful view in here,_ he might say. And if he was feeling generous, he'd let Steve assume he was talking about him. If he weren't, he’d throw back the duvet and indicate himself as the view to be appreciated. They'd both laugh because light-hearted, flirty banter was the bread-and-butter of their friendship and then they'd get on with their day. But Sam didn't have it in him. He nodded and closed his eyes.

"You should've come swimming," Steve said. "It's gorgeous. Much better than this room, that's for sure."

Sam pulled a pillow over his face. "I'm fine right here."

"You haven't left since we got here," Steve pointed out.

"Yeah, it's called being in hiding. From a lot of people with a lot of resources."

"You should at least come running with me. The beach is totally empty."

"And full of sand," Sam pointed out, his voice muffled by the pillow. "I hate sand."

"Sam," Steve said.

Sam didn't reply except to turn on his side and pull the cover over his head.

 "We could rent bikes," Steve suggested. "Or go hiking. Senora Valverde said something about ziplining and there's scuba diving and a monkey park and whitewater rafting and--"

"Steve," Sam groaned, throwing the blanket and pillow off of himself to glare at him. "Not all of us want to keep busy when we're dealing with our shit."

Steve frowned. "I'm not an expert, but I can pretty confidently say lying in bed doesn't get anything done."

"Like you've ever tried it," Sam muttered.

"I did plenty of it when I was sick every day of my life."

Sam rolled his eyes. He didn't even have the energy to point out what a false equivalency Steve's argument was.

"We should be doing something, Sam. I know it's been a rough couple weeks for us."

Sam snorted at the fucking understatement of the year.

"But trust me, getting out and about is a good distraction. We can do something instead of moping around. It's what got me going after I came off the ice. "

Sam's brows drew together incredulously. "Is that what you were doing before we met? All those missions to keep from moping around? Because let me tell you something. You were a fucking disaster before I came along and those 68 missions a week were doing fuck-all for your mental health."

"68 missions a week to _save_ people," Steve said, dramatically missing the point. 

"It sure didn't save you."

Steve crossed his arms over his chest. "What, like _you_ did?

Sam gritted his teeth, half-committing to not getting into a fight with Steve just because he was cranky, but half-really fucking wanting to get into a fight with Steve because he was really fucking cranky and Steve was the only person here to get in a fight with. "You were a disaster when I met you," he blurted out, his irritation winning out over his usual peace-making tendencies. "You were haggard and sad and depressed. But after we took down Hydra and before we found Bucky, I could have sworn you were happy. I could have sworn we were--" Sam clenched his teeth against the pile-up of words on his tongue. He heaved a sigh. "I was just fine before I met you, Steve." He pushed himself off his bed and shuffled to the bathroom. He didn't bother to close the door, just went to the sink and splashed his face with tepid water.

Their hideout was a small vacation home by the beach, their pseudonyms Pat and Andy. Natasha had given them the idea before she disappeared to her own hidey hole in the wake of the airport fight and the Raft. The house was a modest space, no air conditioning, one giant room with two beds off to one side and a pull out couch in the small living room. But when you stepped off the back porch, you were on the beach and the sun sparkled as it came through the windows and the thick, sweet smell of exotic flora blanketed everything. It was a honeymoon fantasy, the perfect vacation, paradise.

But Sam felt like hell. He braced himself and finally looked into the mirror. He grimaced. He looked like hell too. This was post-Riley all over again. Nah, he didn't feel quite that bad. He certainly _looked_ as bad, but nothing had yet challenged that feeling as the worst in his entire life. Rhodey going down came close-- but Rhodey survived. And being in that jail -- but Sam had survived. And so had Steve. This was its own special brand of terrible, but at least it wasn't like post-Riley.

Sam  needed a shave and an edge up. He needed to eat something with actual nutritional value. He probably needed to go out in the sun. He touched the fading bruises on his face. They would be all but invisible in a day or so. If he actually managed to sleep a full night, he'd lose the red-rimmed eyes, too. Presumably. He might have cried so much on that plane ride away from the  Raft that he'd done permanent damage to his eyes.

When Steve had come for them, appearing out of the dark like an angel, Sam had felt the kind of relief that batters through all your emotional safeguards and he'd come a little unhinged. First, the manic happiness. Babbling that he knew Steve would come for them, hugging Scott and Clint and Wanda and grinning like an idiot as they hopped on the choppers out. That had lasted all of half an hour. As they skimmed high above the dark, choppy ocean, the real ugliness of the last week came on Sam like a sickness. His body turned to lead and the tears rushed forward like a river bursting a dam.

After all he'd done -- all the amends he'd made for being a knuckleheaded teenager, a screw-up partner who couldn't catch Riley when he fell -- after he'd come back from all that, he was an international criminal who might never be able to come out of hiding and Rhodey was somewhere out there where Sam could never apologize, never make right what he had ruined. He cried until his head felt squashy with it, until his eyes ached and his cheeks felt tight and dry where the rivulets of tears had streamed. He cried for Rhodey and he cried for himself, and he even cried for Steve and Bucky. He cried until he was as wrung out as a dish rag, until he was empty.

And the emptiness was heavy. It held him down like a weight, so it was hard to get out of bed or look in mirrors or go for swims and runs in the most beautiful place on Earth.

Sam grabbed his toiletry bag off the shelf by the vanity. His mama had always told him when he felt bad about something that a shave and a shower would make him feel better. It might not make everything okay, but it'd be a start. Sam found his razor and shaving cream. The soft, pillowy texture of the cream was cool on his skin and the hard drag of the razor felt like sloughing off all the pain and ugliness that had calcified in and over him this last week. He worked slowly and methodically to reveal clean, smooth skin and he shaped up his facial hair as best he could with what little energy he had for the task. After rinsing and patting his face dry, Sam confronted his reflection again. Not so bad. It looked like maybe he'd gone too far with the contouring powder and chopped some onions recently.

He went back into the bedroom. Steve was sitting on the edge of one of the beds in a grey t-shirt and khaki shorts. He looked up at Sam, his eyes brimming with hurt, betrayal, anger. "So this whole thing is my fault. That's how you feel."

"What?"

"You were just fine before you met me?" Steve asked. The anger in his voice was as cold and brittle as iron and whatever little healing process Sam had jumpstarted in the bathroom was stalling right out the gate. Steve's blue gaze pierced him.  "No, Sam, you were just really good at pretending when you met me. Neither of us was 'fine'. If you want to be pissed at me, go right ahead, but don't rewrite history like you were the picture of mental health. I heard you having your nightmares and you've shut me out plenty of times over the last couple years. And if running around is how I deal with shit, who the fuck are you to say that's not okay?" He glared at Sam like he expected an answer.

But Sam was at a complete and total loss. He didn't know how to say any of the things he needed to say. Couldn't articulate all the anger curled up inside him, wrapped around his vital organs and pushing the viscera of him aside to take up more space, hot and acidic and lapping at Sam's sanity and his love for Steve. His love that looked a lot like anger but was really just unrequited. Unrequited and still one of the best things Sam had had going for him in years. But he couldn't say any of that, so he said, "Can you just go for your little run or hike or whatever? We're both cranky. We've been around each other too long. And we're stressed and stupid."

Sam didn't wait for Steve's reply. He went to stand in the stream of sunshine off the back porch. He heard Steve heave a sigh, then the mattress squeaked.

"You should--we should eat something," Steve said. "I'm gonna go to the market. Anything you'd like?"

Sam shook his head and after a few minutes, the front door opened and closed. Sam waited a few seconds more before he climbed back into his bed and covered his face with a pillow.

 

**_A World on Fire_ **

 Steve lingered in the market longer than he ordinarily would have. He shouldn't have blown up at Sam like that. Sam had every right to be mad, every right to be short-tempered. They were hiding thousands of miles from Sam's family and friends with no clear plan to return things to the way they were.

And Steve had done it to him. And for what? To save Bucky, sure, and then to save the world, but Steve hadn't done either. Bucky had put himself back on ice, and Steve couldn't help feeling like Bucky had got the better end of the deal. How many times had Steve wanted to do that since they woke him up? Just to be put back in the slab of ice they'd found him in and set adrift in the arctic? But he hadn't. He hadn't given up. Bucky had. Bucky had fucking given up and it pissed Steve off. He knew it shouldn't. What the fuck else was Bucky supposed to do? Run around hoping that no one would say that series of words that turned him into the Winter Soldier? And even if that switch could be turned off, wasn't it probably a little better to stay asleep? Nothing good had ever happened to Bucky in this new world while he was awake. And if he did stay awake, was the government going to try him for crimes his body had done without his consent? Was Tony going to try to kill him again? It was absurd. The whole fucking situation was absurd and Steve was so mind-blowingly frustrated at the limits of his powers that his anger had to go somewhere and Bucky -- far away, safe, dead to the world -- got the brunt of that. But Sam got some of it too. And that was just as unfair -- maybe more unfair because Sam could feel and see and react to Steve's anger.

Steve had let the world burn so Bucky could be free, but Bucky wasn't free and the world was on fire. And maybe it'd be fine if Steve was burning alone. But so was Sam. So were Clint and Scott and Wanda. And Rhodey. And...here Steve clenched his teeth so hard his jaw creaked...and so was Tony.

Steve strolled through the farmer's market, watching the other tourists interact with the vendors. Well...could an international fugitive also be a tourist? To the locals, he probably looked no different. He was wearing a floppy hat and sunglasses, carrying his money in a tote bag he'd bought at the airport that said 'Te amo Costa Rica' in bold, tacky colors. A perfect disguise. To look at him, no one would think he'd been in a death match with Tony Stark less than a week ago, squirreled his weaponized best friend into hiding in the King of Wakanda's cryogenic chamber, and fled to South America to hide from Senator Ross and his ilk with Sam Wilson.

Steve picked out some mangos, bananas, and coconuts. He considered some of the less familiar fruits but the last thing this tense hideout situation needed was stomach problems brought on by exotic cuisine. Whatever truce Sam and Steve might come to would be severely tested with just the one bathroom. Steve bought chicken empanadas at a street vendor close by as an olive branch to Sam. They could both use some actual food; that might cut the bickering down by half. Thunder rumbled distantly and Steve looked up. Charcoal gray clouds tinged with purple hung low near the horizon out over the sea.

When Steve came back to their house, Sam was under a comforter and pillow. It was hot and sticky in the room, the open windows unable to coax in the sea breeze that had ruffled Steve's hair on the walk back. Steve didn't know how Sam could sleep under there.

Steve quietly arranged his peace offering meal on the kitchen table, peeling and cutting and arranging the fruit on paper plates before unwrapping the empanadas. Their savory aroma filled the small space quickly and Sam shifted under his covers. Steve popped the tops on two bottles of beer -- one of the locals had recommended it for its 'coffee notes and subtle smokiness.' All beer tasted like all other beer to Steve, but Sam was sort of a snob about it and Steve hoped he'd appreciate the 'coffee notes' or whatever. Steve was more of a wine guy. 

Steve looked at his spread. Fruit, empanadas, and beer were a pretty shitty apology for getting them both banished to a far corner of earth away from their previous lives, but ... well, Steve didn't have a lot more to give.

"Sam," he said. "You up?"

The blanket roiled. "Depends," came the muffled reply.

Steve smiled. "I'm sorry about before," he said. He watched the lump in the duvet, waiting for Sam to tell him to fuck off.

Sam emerged from the folds of the blanket. "Then I guess I'm up." He bit his lip. "And, um, I'm sorry, too. About before."

Steve waved his apology away. "Come eat. I got us real food. And craft beer."

Sam grinned and Steve felt a little woozy from it. "That's a hell of an apology, Cap.”

"Not nearly big enough," Steve said.

Sam rolled out of bed,  stood up, and stretched. He was shirtless, wearing white pajama bottoms. A purplish bruise covered his lower left ribs and a small bandage hid a shallow cut under his clavicle. Steve had stood in the room while T'challa's physicians treated Sam, guilt gnawing at the pink matter of his brain like rats. Sam carried his scars. Steve's skin was pale and unblemished, all evidence of the slug fest with Tony gone from him. Steve wanted to kiss Sam's bruises. He wanted to apologize with every part of him. He wanted to go back in time somehow and confess his feelings for Sam before things got so ugly and complicated and irredeemable. He wanted...things he couldn't have. Being Captain America in the modern era was an exercise in denial. It was like he wasn't meant to have anything good or bright. Peggy died. Bucky went back on ice. Sam had watched Rhodey fall, had sacrificed himself so Steve and Bucky could fight Winter Soldiers it turned out weren't the real threat, and he'd been jailed in the Raft like a villain, a criminal. They'd taken his wings, the wings Sam had said made him the happiest man in the world. And that was all on Steve. And Sam might forgive him. He had a forgiving nature. But love him? After all Steve had done to ruin his life. Impossible.

Sam shuffled to the table and admired Steve's offering. Steve's stomach grumbled audibly.

"Yeah, " Sam muttered, "me too." He sat down and reached for the food. "Thanks, Steve."

Steve nodded.

Sam picked up an empanada and brought it to his mouth, but didn't bite. "You trying to poison me for earlier?" he asked.

"Huh?"

"You're not eating."

"Oh, sorry. Just making sure you eat. Noticed you haven't really...in a while."

Sam smiled. "You don't have to take care of me, Steve."

"I put you in this mess."

Sam shook his head. "Let's not play the blame game. Eat your food."

Steve held up his hand and went to his backpack for his iPod. He scrolled through his music to find a good song. Etta James's "At Last." It wasn't subtle at all, but Steve had never been all that subtle with his feelings for Sam, even if Sam didn't reciprocate.

As Etta's voice swelled, Sam took a bite of his empanada and groaned. He closed his eyes as he chewed, swaying with the violin and Etta's dreamy notes. Steve sat down in front of him and watched him eat, a sweet ache blooming in his chest, pushing aside all the anger and frustration, like a flower growing up through concrete.

_I found a dream that I could speak to_

_A dream that I can call my own_

Sam finished the first empanada and reached for another. "Steve, eat something. And stop giving me the eye or I'm really gonna think you're trying to poison me."

Steve laughed. "No foul play, Sam. Promise."

_You smiled, you smiled oh and then the spell was cast_

_And here we are in Heaven_

_For you are mine at last_

They both ate more than they should as Steve's iPod cycled through songs. Frank Sinatra's "Somewhere Beyond the Sea" followed Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You" followed James Ingram's "So This Is Love."

"My mama would love this playlist," Sam said as he ate chunks of mango.

Steve felt his face flush. "It's on random," he said.

Sam shrugged. He got up and tossed the paper plates and beer bottles. "I ate too much," he said, patting his stomach.

"Me too." Steve swallowed the last swig of beer. "I was thinking," he said slowly. "Maybe I oughta try your way."

"What's that?" Sam asked.

Lauryn Hill crooned "Can't Take My Eyes Off of You" in the background.

 "Just laying around for a little while." Steve crossed his arms over his chest and squeezed. "Maybe not running around so much. Running away from..." He tapped his finger to his temple.

Sam smoothed his hand over his hair. "Yeah?" he said. He tilted his head. "Maybe I'll try your thing, too. Doing shit. Not wallowing around in..." He tapped his finger to his temple and smiled.

Steve looked over at the beds. "No time like the present for the lying down and doing nothing plan."

"You ain't slick," Sam laughed. "You got that 'itis and you're trying to pretend like taking a nap is just a compromise."

Steve brushed Sam off, yawning. The thunder rolled again, closer than when Steve was at the market before, but still a ways off. "I haven't been sleeping that well," he admitted.

Sam nodded. "I noticed."

Steve tossed his empty beer bottle in the trash. "Is there any technique to laying around doing nothing?" he asked.

Sam considered for a moment. "You gotta really mean it. Really commit to the inertness." Sam poured himself a glass of water. "Oh, and lay on your back so you can stare listlessly at the ceiling for long stretches of time."

Steve nodded seriously. "Sounds doable." He tugged off his T-shirt. "I hope the rain cools it off a little bit."

"Senora Valverde came by with a window fan," Sam remembered. He turned away from Steve and proceeded to rinse the beer bottles like his life depended on their sterilization. "It's over there." He gestured vaguely toward the other side of the room.

It might have been a ridiculous ego thing, but Steve never really got tired of Sam being flustered when he was shirtless. Steve knew his body proportions were ridiculous and even Natasha usually gave him an eyebrow wiggle when she caught him without a shirt, but Steve only got that rush of satisfaction when Sam responded. (Not that he was just popping his shirt off every chance he got. That would be ridiculous.)

The air from the window fan wasn't necessarily cooler, but it was nice just to move the currents around a little bit. Steve sat on the edge of his mattress after he hooked up the fan and tried not to feel so tense at the prospect of lying down. _Relax_ , he said to himself. _Fucking relax._ He swung his legs up on to the bed.

"You're taking a nap, Steve. Not having heart surgery."

"It's 12:30 in the afternoon. This goes against all my instincts."

Sam sat down on his own bed facing Steve. "Whatever you're trying not to think about is just going to be waiting for you when exhaustion _forces_ you to take a break."

Steve wrinkled his nose. "Don't be Counsellor Wilson, Sam."

"Don't be so difficult, Steve." Sam leaned back into the embrace of his pillows. "This is perfect," he sighed.

Steve glanced over at Sam. His dark skin was a lovely contrast against the white pillows and duvet, and a small smile curved his cheek. Steve closed his eyes and tried to be like the waves breaking on the beach, their rhythm slow and steady, but flickers of the sort of things he didn't want to see started pushing through the cracks of his mental fortress. Bucky's sad smile before they froze him. Tony's face before Steve cracked the heart of his Iron Man suit with the shield. The glossy shine of Peggy's casket. Sam crying on the helicopter, turning his body away from Steve as though he hadn't wanted Steve to know. As though Steve wouldn't have noticed.

Steve sat up and looked over at Sam again, who looked relaxed and calm, nestled into his bed like he hadn't a care in the world.  The Tempatations' "All I Need" whispered through the room. Steve cleared his throat. "Um... Sam?"

Sam peeked one eye open.

Steve cleared his throat. "How's...um...how's your mattress?"

Sam's cheek dimpled. "Not too bad. And yours?"

"Too soft."

Sam opened both eyes and pushed himself up on to his elbows. He looked at Steve like an interrogator searching for the truth in his suspect's eyes. Steve tried to look innocent, guileless. It clearly didn’t work because Sam smirked knowingly and leaned back again, almost disappearing into the cloud of duvet. His voice was lilting and sly as he asked, "Wanna come try mine?"

Steve could hear the playful challenge in Sam's tone. Sam fully expected Steve to make some flirty, but ultimately dismissive remark and remain here on his own bed. But Steve had other plans.

He flopped down next to Sam, hard enough that Sam briefly left the mattress, his eyes flying wide with alarm.

"Dude," he yelped when he landed. He smacked Steve on the chest.

Steve laughed. "If I'm gonna figure out how to do this, I need to study with the best. Up close." He pushed up against Sam, mostly to be an asshole, but just a little bit because being close to Sam was always high on his list of things to do. "And personal." He flung his arm over Sam's chest.

"You are generating way too much body heat, man."

Steve grinned. "So you think I'm hot."

"I think you're messing up practically the easiest instructions anyone has ever given you. Lay your corny ass down and take a nap." Sam elbowed Steve away, but Steve saw the smile on his face.

He undraped himself from Sam – slightly. "Your mattress is better.”

"How do you know?” Sam laughed. “You’re laying on me."

'"Tell me to move."

Sam grumbled something under his breath and Steve smirked against his arm.

“What’d you say?”

"Take your nap, man."

_Sunday morning rain is falling_

_Steal some covers; share some skin_

_Clouds are shrouding us in moments unforgettable_

_You twist to fit the mold that I am in_

Steve closed his eyes. Tony. Bucky. Sam. He flinched.

“It’s okay,” Sam said. He patted Steve’s arm. Steve grunted. Sam took his hand. “Talk to me, man.”

_I would gladly hit the road_

_Get up and go if I knew_

_That someday it would lead me back to you_

Steve sighed. “Just thinking about how much I fucked up everything.”

“Hm.”

“Tony and I, we were never going to be best buddies. Too different, I guess. But I cared about his well-being. I knew he was important to the team. And in his roundabout, self-involved way, he reciprocated. I think. But, you know, if you and I had come out on different sides of this thing, we wouldn’t have got in a fight in an airport. We would’ve talked about it. We might have stormed off, pissed, but it wouldn’t have been a fist fight. Nobody would have got hurt. I think Tony and I were always going to end up here. Even if Bucky –” Steve swallowed. “And Bucky’s on cryo. We did all that and he’s just gone again. And we—I have to go on knowing I failed him. And I got you banished with me. And…there’s just a lot I’d do differently if I’d taken long enough to think.”

Sam sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.”

And Steve didn’t know why or how, but somehow, someway he felt a little better. He looked up at Sam, who had a furrow between his brows and was staring off into the distance.

“Your turn,” Steve said.

Sam wrinkled his nose. “Stop trying to get out of this damn nap, Steve. You’re like a toddler.”

“I’m really not that tired,” Steve insisted.

Sam rolled his eyes and patted Steve’s cheek patronizingly. “Moonlight in Vermont” floated through the room, soft and kind and dreamy, Ella Fitzgerald’s voice like a balm. “You know, this playlist is really mushy,” Sam pointed out. “Really good songs and all, but every one of them could be the first dance at a wedding.”

Steve shrugged. “I’m pretty sure these are all…” He yawned. “I put my songs in playlists by who recommends them. Nat’s got one. And Fury.” He yawned again, turning his face toward Sam to block out the light in the room. “This is yours. Since the day we met.” Steve thought he could hear the first patters of rain.

“Mine?” Sam said, sounding shocked. “I—They’re all—these are the songs I told you to listen to?”

Steve nodded. “Trouble Man’s the first song on the list.”

Ella Fitzgerald sang on and it was maybe a minute before Sam said disbelievingly, “They’re all love songs.”

“Hm?” Steve said, the pull of sleep becoming more and more irresistible. “I didn’t noti—”

 

**Certainty**

"How was your nap?" Sam asked, smiling down at Steve. Steve looked up at him blearily and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

"Did I drool?"

Sam laughed, nodding.

"And I'm holding you like a teddy bear."

Sam nodded again. "I thought I was gonna die of a heat stroke there for a minute, but it started raining and cooled off a bit."

“Sorry.” Steve untangled himself from Sam and Sam only minded a little bit. “Did you sleep?”

“Yeah.” Sam scratched his fingers through his hair. “I dreamed I had my wings back,” he admitted. Steve predictably tensed with guilt, but Sam went on ahead. “And I was teaching you how to fly.”

“Was I any good?”

Sam shook his head. “You were fucking terrible. But I didn’t let you fall.”

Steve smiled up at him, that crooked grin that could charm just about anyone into anything. Sam had to look away before he made a complete and total fool of himself.

“So, we took a nap,” Sam said. “Now we gotta go hiking or running or ziplining.”

Steve glanced out the window. "But it's still raining.”  

“You did _my_ thing,” Sam said. He rolled from under Steve’s arm and stood up. “I'm gonna do _yours_. Put on some sneakers. We’re being active. Getting out. Not moping. You said it works wonders.”

Steve made a face at Sam, but got up and obliged him anyway. Sam surreptitiously edged over to the kitchen table and scrolled through Steve’s iPod playlist (playing KC and JoJo’s “All My Life). Sure enough, almost all iconic love songs. Sam shook his head. He really had been telling on himself all along.

“Ready,” Steve said, coming up behind him and clapping his shoulder. He plucked his iPod out of Sam’s hands and pressed pause on the song. “You bring a charger with you?”

When they got outside, the beach was empty and the rain was light and warm, just a kiss on the skin.

“It’s your turn,” Steve said as they stood on the porch looking out at the beach. “To complain.”

Sam shook his head. “I just—I just wanna go home.” He tried to smile, to say he didn’t blame Steve, that they’d all made decisions out there and he was an adult who could take the consequences of his actions, even when those consequences sucked. He didn’t want Steve to apologize for the hundredth time. And Steve seemed to get that.

He squeezed Sam’s shoulder and said, “I want that, too.”

“Alright then,” Sam said. He stretched his arms in front of him, pushing each elbow to the opposite shoulder. “We’ve both said our piece. Let’s get this ‘doing shit’ thing over with.” Sam launched off the back porch and took a couple long strides before Steve was there beside him and then passing him by, because Steve was an asshole who couldn’t possibly run at the slow speeds of a mere human.

 “It’s not called running together when you sprint away,” Sam roared after him. “Asshole!” Steve threw a grin back at him before he was just a small figure too far away to really make out.

Sam didn’t really mind. He liked to run alone. It’s why he’d never taken any of his VA buddies up on starting a running group. It’s how he’d met Steve.

It was good to be out, Sam had to admit. Even if his legs burned from the effort for the first ten or fifteen minutes, needing to loosen up, having to push through the firm, wet sand. Sam concentrated on the feel of his body in space, a mindfulness practice he’d learned back when he’d been in therapy. There was the pull of breath into his lungs, the hot sting in his thighs, the shifting sand under his feet, the tightness of his core. The tide came in and went out in lovely whooshes and the rain pattered gently, a drop or two clinging to his lashes. The air smelled of salt and damp foliage and fruit.  

Sam ran for about half an hour before he saw Steve coming back toward him, grinning. “Did you fall down?" Steve asked. "Get into a conversation with one of the locals.” He made a pretend shocked face. “Don’t tell me you’re really just this slow?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Shut up, you ass. Ready to turn around?”

Steve shrugged. “I was just coming back to make sure you hadn’t tripped into the sea and died. I can do this all day.” He was now running backwards a few paces in front of Sam, just to show he could.

And Sam had to think of this as an exercise in patience so he wouldn’t punch Steve in his stupid face. “Let’s get to that palm tree up there and then we’ll go back.” He tried hard not to sound out-of-breath.

“How long do you think that’ll be?” Steve asked. “I might have to go back to the house for supplies if we’re going to be out here for two days.” Sam curled his lip and Steve laughed, that over-the-top clutching-his-chest laugh. “I thought we came out to run,” Steve said. “This is a promenade, a stroll.” He cracked up again and when he caught his breath, he pointed at the sand and said, “Sam, What’s that? Is that a – hahahah--baby turtle –hahaha – a baby turtle outpacing you?” He threw his head back, laughing it up and Sam took his shot. He summoned all his Little League football training into a textbook tackle, caught Steve right around his tiny waist, and -- “Arrwgh!” Steve shouted, toppling backwards.

Sam landed on top of him with a thwack and Steve grabbed his shirt to keep him from rolling over and into the surf. It was a miracle Sam didn’t hurt himself. Steve’s body didn’t have any give anywhere. Dense hard muscle over even more dense hard muscle. Sam pushed himself up on to his hands, damp grains of sand pushing up between his fingers, cool to the touch. He grinned smugly.

“ _That_ was cheating,” Steve accused and for once, he sounded winded. “But you got your point across. Lemme up.” He pressed his hand into Sam’s chest like he was going to push Sam off him, but he didn’t put any force behind it. The heat of his palm bled through the thin, wet cotton of Sam’s t-shirt, Steve’s index finger resting just below the hollow of Sam’s throat. Sam’s heart pounded and he knew Steve could feel it. It raced. The smug smile on Sam’s lips faded with every thump.

Even in this gray twilight of an afternoon storm, Steve’s eyes were ridiculously blue, with just that tinge of green. Steve’s hair (ever so slightly longer than usual and spiky and dark from the rain) lay on his forehead in damp peaks. Seven of Sam’s heartbeats thudded as they looked at one another, Steve gazing steadily at Sam as if he were as fascinated with Sam as Sam was with him. Steve brought his other hand up to touch Sam’s side. Another point of contact, of heat.

Sam couldn’t say what made him do it, but before he could think himself out of it, before he could let reason prevail, he finger-combed Steve’s hair back from his face. He did it casually, like it was nothing, like he hadn’t ever thought about it before. Spur of the moment. Whatever. But it felt like dragging his fingers through electricity, touching Steve. The color rose on Steve’s cheeks immediately. And when Sam traced the hard line down from Steve’s brow to his cheekbone to the sharp jut of his jaw, the blush followed.

 “It’s raining on me,” Steve murmured. Drops of rain hit his skin and trickled down toward his ears.  

Sam leaned forward to cover him. “How’s this?” he asked. The rain looked like drops of dew on Steve’s absurdly long eyelashes.

“Better,” Steve murmured. He parted his lips.

Sam tilted his head, his whole body fluttering with…something.

“You should…” Steve whispered.

The rain was picking up again, starting to run in rivulets down Sam’s neck and the crashing waves on the shore sounded louder, rougher. “I should…” he said.

And then Steve smiled, reached up, cupped Sam’s face, and pulled him into the sweetest, softest kiss Sam had ever experienced, that perhaps the world had ever known. The very barest graze of lips, but _god_ , it had the feel of an earthquake. On a Pure, Gentle, and Good Scale, it had a magnitude of infinity. Scientists were befuddled, the world stunned, romance novelists retiring because nothing could come after this, the world’s perfect kiss.

Sam sighed. “Yes.” He kissed Steve again to be sure. “Yes.”

Steve dropped his head back into the sand and closed his eyes. “Sam,” he whispered, his voice fraught and affected. Like maybe…

“Sorry,” Sam blurted out. He pulled away.

But Steve was lightning quick to grab and hold him. “Sam.” The rain fell in earnest now, making it hard to see anything. Steve sat up without displacing Sam, so that now Sam was straddling his lap. He pressed his lips to Sam’s, one hand cupping his head, the other at the small of his back, kissing him so slowly, so tenderly, so…Sam groaned, completely overcome. “Easy,” Steve said. He ran his tongue along the seam of Sam’s lips, waited for Sam to let him in, set a rhythm of give and take that mimicked the push and pull of the tides. So natural, so inevitable, so…Goosebumps came to the surface of Sam’s overly sensitive skin and they weren’t all from the rain.

Sam had to pull away to catch a breath and he wiped the rain from his face. “We should get back,” he said, his heart thudding. “It’s really coming down.”

Steve’s hands smoothed up Sam’s spine, hot as fire. “Is that why we should get back?” he asked. “The rain?”

Sam laughed. “Yeah, Steve. I wanna get out of these wet clothes.”

Steve pupils visibly dilated. “We _should_ get you out of those clothes,” he concurred. “Wouldn’t want you to catch a chill with your fragile, regular human immune system.’

When they stood up, Steve flashed that endearing, crooked smile. He reached for Sam’s hand, shyly, like they hadn’t just made out on a public beach in the rain. “This okay?” he asked.

Sam nodded.

“I didn’t know if I berated you enough, you’d kiss me,” he said conversationally as they walked back toward the house. “I would have done it sooner.”

Sam hip-checked him and rolled his eyes. “Your old man memory is really very sad, Steve. _You_ kissed _me_.”

 “You came 90 percent of the way.”

“To keep the rain out of your eyes.”

Steve harrumphed. “When you kissed me back, was that just to keep the rain off my mouth?”

He laughed as Sam spluttered incoherently.

When they came in view of the house tucked up in the shade of a grove of palm trees, they both picked up the pace and before long they were outright running for the back porch, laughing for no reason, Steve matching Sam’s strides and then practically lifting him off his feet when they got to the porch. Sam couldn’t figure out for the life of him how Steve was holding him up and opening the back door all in one smooth motion but he didn’t have time to puzzle through it or even be impressed because Steve was pushing him up against the wall, kissing him like there was a firing squad outside and this was their last good-bye. It was a complete one-eighty from the gentle kisses in the rain, but Sam could adjust. His legs were wrapped around Steve’s waist (when had that happened?) and his hands were tugging at Steve’s wet shirt. Steve leaned back long enough to pull it over his head before coming in to kiss Sam again. And god could he kiss. Natasha’s account of kissing Steve amounted to pure, malicious slander. Even their beach kisses had faded into mediocrity under this onslaught of pure skill. Heat ran up and down Sam’s arms, coiled in his stomach, danced across his shoulders. There was static on his skin and he was shamelessly trying to get some friction against Steve, who only laughed and said, “Easy,” before carrying him to one of the beds and laying him down. Steve resumed the kiss but now his hands were free to roam. And it was like he had a treasure map of all the places that would make Sam squirm, make Sam’s back arch, coax a groan from his throat.

“Steve,” he begged, pulling Steve toward him, trying to get rid of every inch between them. He wanted the full weight of Steve, the full reality of him. “I can…you should…” The words got lost on the way from his brain to his mouth, but Steve seemed to understand.

Sam had always loved kissing. It was perhaps his favorite part of sex. But it had never been this good, this electrifying and titillating and perfect. And Sam knew it was Steve, knew it was always supposed to be Steve, knew it with a sureness that would have terrified him if he didn’t know Steve felt it too. The certainty was in every touch, every gasp, every roll of Steve’s hips as he grinded down on Sam, every scrape of teeth and fingernails, every shudder, every groan.

It had to be Steve because Steve was Sam’s meant-to-be. Sam had never believed in them until now. Until his life had been completely uprooted and dissolved into chaos -- yet he still wanted Steve. Until he was exiled to the middle of nowhere over what amounted to a petty squabble -- yet he still wanted Steve. Until he had been put in a prison cell in the middle of the ocean far from court systems and justice and he still wanted Steve.

Sam wanted Steve when life was peachy and when it was a mess. He wanted Steve when they were Falcon and the Cap, Pat and Andy, Sam and Steve, whoever, whatever, wherever they were.

Certainty like that turned an amazing kiss into a life-altering one.

Steve rolled them over so Sam was on top. Somewhere along the way they had lost their pants and now Steve wrapped his hand around both of their dicks and slapped Sam’s thigh. “Help me out,” he said, pink and rosy from hairline to nipples, gorgeous beyond all understanding. Sam rocked forward into his grip and Steve’s eyes fluttered closed.

Sam shook his head. “Look at me,” he said. “I want to—I want to see you. I want you…to see me.”

He pushed forward again, again, again, setting a relentless pace, chasing that coiling, tightening feeling that started in his fingertips, earlobes, and shins and rushed toward the center of him, toward his core. Steve’s eyes were glazed and half-lidded, but he was here, his lips parted, his chest rising and falling. “Sam,” he sighed and Sam understood that the tone he had taken for fraught before was really love.

And he knew because he felt it too.

After, when they were lying side by side, staring up at the ceiling, Sam said, “So which one of us was right?”

“Hmm?” Steve asked, halfway asleep.

“Well,” Sam said, “is it better to lay in bed or go out and do something?”

Steve lifted Sam’s hand to his mouth and kissed his knuckles. He intertwined their fingers. “I like our compromise,” he mumbled. He rested his head on Sam’s shoulder. “To do something in bed.”

Sam laughed. He should have expected a cheesy answer like that.

 

**_Epilogue_** : **_Nothing but Trouble_**

“We should call Fury,” Sam said. He was sitting at the kitchen table about a week later, doing a Spanish kid’s crossword puzzle while Steve measured out all the ingredients for sweet plantains from a recipe on his phone.

“Hm?” Steve asked.

“To help sort out this whole mess,” Sam said. “I don’t want to be in hiding for the rest of my life.” He got up and came to stand at the counter beside Steve. “Even if it’s with you in paradise.”

Steve nodded. He had been trying not to think about their exile as he reveled in being with Sam. But he knew Sam was right. “You think Fury can help?” he asked. “You think Fury _will_ help?”

“If we’d called Fury from jump,” Sam said, “I don’t think any of this would have happened. He’s the only one of us with any sense.”

Steve snorted, knowing the truth when he heard it. “Where was this bright idea _before_ we fucked up everything?”

Sam scrunched his nose. “We had a lot immediate problems on our hands. And I was trying to help you save your friend, your buddy, your old pal. And said friend, buddy, pal was trying to kill me. Wasn't a lot of time for 'hmm, wonder what Fury's up to' thoughts.”

Steve groaned, revisiting how phenomenally dumb he had been, they had all been. He nodded. “We should definitely have gone to Fury first thing. It’s so obvious.”

Sam turned the stove on and cut the butter into the pan. “Yep. And now we're gonna hear a whole speech. _'I’m always cleaning up after y'all_ ,' he'll say. _'How'd a bunch of grown folk think fighting in a parking lot was gonna solve anything?_ And ‘ _What did I tell you, Sam? Don't let your little white friends get you in trouble._ '”

Steve laughed. “He said that?”

“Sure did. And did I listen? No.”

“Are the rules different when it’s your white _boy_ friend?” Steve placed the sliced plantains into the melted butter.

Sam sprinkled in the sugar and cinnamon and Steve added the cloves and nutmeg. “I think then the rule applies _doubly_ ,” Sam said. “And for you—” He poked Steve shoulder and Steve grabbed his wrist. He sucked the scattering of sugar crystals off Sam’s finger. “I think it probably goes triple for you," Sam said. 

**Author's Note:**

> Like honestly, I'm still peeved that CACW happened the way it did, considering one call to Fury could have kept a lot of stupidity from going down. One second of self-reflection on the part of many of the characters could also have kept a lot of stupidity from going down. Anyhow, Samsteve is the saving grace of the MCU.


End file.
